


Only Human- A Possible Ending to Final Fantasy XV

by MathClassWarfare



Series: We’ve Got Plenty of Time [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Related, Fluff and Angst, Gen, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/pseuds/MathClassWarfare
Summary: The Astrals show some compassion for once.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i wanna be the place you call your home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039200) by [earlgrey_milktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea). 
  * Inspired by [The Way They Were](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920) by [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian). 
  * Inspired by [Days to Remember](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060735) by [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian). 
  * Inspired by [if i'm a little more complete, it's all because of you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222959) by [earlgrey_milktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea). 



> Acknowledgments:
> 
> I borrowed (stole?) many ideas for this from other fan works by [bean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea) and [Asidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian). They are linked above in the inspiration section. Thank you both for your wonderful works (and for giving me that extra D6 on my writing skill check).
> 
> I also stole from Homer, Frank Herbert, and China Mieville. Maybe David Lynch too, but I didn't notice until later.

_It’s the end of the game, “present time,” outside the Citadel_

The rosy fingers of dawn reach up from the horizon. Light is returning to the world. A daemon dissipates into a cloud of ash and blows away in the wake of a swinging greatsword. Prompto, realizing that there is nothing left to shoot, looks up at the sky and drops to his knees.

“He’s done it! We—we’ve done it! It’s done . . . Noct . . . He’s . . .“ Prompto, one hand on the ground, another clutching at his chest, sobbing, cannot finish this thought.

Gladio surveys the distant hills, his crumbling city, their immediate surroundings—the scene of an interrupted war.

Ignis turns his face towards the rising sun.

Prompto’s tears wet the dusty ground as he sends out a silent and furtive prayer to the monstrous gods.

_Please, just let him live. It’s not fair. He didn’t want to be “Chosen.” He didn’t want power. He didn’t want any of it. WE don’t want any of it. We don’t need it. We can take care of ourselves. Please. Keep your crystal. Sacrifice your Chosen King, but can’t you just let Noct live?_

Prompto shivers as chilled air brushes past his cheek, freezing a tear there for a moment, before the warmth of the sun melts it away.

—

Noctis is at the throne, head hanging, the Sword of the Father pinning him there. The massive crystal suspended above.

With a crackle, a thin sheet of ice whizzes along the narrow red carpet running from the throne room doors, up the steps to the throne, encasing Noctis and the fateful sword in a glacial cocoon.

The shimmering ice-sword shatters into tiny shards, which fall into the lap and at the feet of the King, as the ice continues its upward trajectory, icicle fringe on ornate banners, finally encompassing the crystal.

A loud crack, a tinkling waterfall of ice shards tumble down the stairs. And the crystal is no more.

In its place, the Glacian. Shiva. Oversized, and ethereal.

Noctis and Luna, not quite corporeal, peer over the top of the throne at the slumped and frozen figure seated there.

Shiva speaks, and the two look up at her. “We have heard your friend’s plea, and we are moved. If you would take your life back, you may have it. But not as the Chosen, and not as the King. You may live merely as a man.”

Noct and Luna look at one another with faint surprise, then back at the goddess.

“Know that if we do this, it must not interfere with the Prophecy. Noctis Lucis Caelum rid this star of its scourge at the cost of his own life. This is a truth that even the Astrals cannot change.”

The Oracle and the Chosen King, hands clasped, nod in unison. Noctis turns his head and gently kisses his childhood friend on her cheek. With a warm smile, she guides him to the throne. He sits, and the ice begins to melt.

—

Three friends enter the throne room, arm-in-arm. All three are crying.

A sharp intake of breath from Gladio. “What the hell?!”

Prompto lifts red-rimmed eyes to the empty throne. “He’s . . . already gone.”

—

The funeral takes place in the throne room.

Sunlight pours in through stained glass windows.

Hundreds of mourners press tear-damp fingers on a closed stone sarcophagus.


	2. Chapter 2

Noctis tugs at his hood as he walks through the park, stealing glances across the plaza. A black dog trots along behind him. The sky is purple and orange.

He hears the clash of wooden practice swords, a splash, and a panicked yelp.

“Get up. Try again” Gladio growls as he reaches to help his student out of the fountain.

She is wringing the water out of her jacket when something catches his eye. A familiar black dog. “I’ll be right back—practice your blocking stance.”

Noctis and Umbra quicken their pace as they leave the park and slip into the alley behind the fish market. Noctis smiles and wrinkles his nose.

Gladio looks up and down the block but he doesn’t see the dog. _I need to stop doing this._

He returns to finish the training session. Lucis needs good soldiers now more than ever.

—

Ignis sits in a sidewalk cafe, listening intently to the dapper young man seated across the table.

“It is imperative that you designate election day as a national holiday to encourage voter turnout. The working class cannot vote if they do not have the day off work.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” says Ignis.

The first ever Lucian election will take place within the year, and the responsibility for logistics has fallen largely on Ignis’s shoulders. Without a royal family to serve, he is now the Secretary for the interim government. Luckily, the fledgling democracy has the guidance and monetary aid of a more experienced ally.

“Here’s another thing we learned the hard way in Accordo,” the visiting diplomat continues. “You need to have a lot of polling places that are easy to get to. People don’t like standing in long lines.”

“Indeed.” Ignis nods. “What do you recommend for counting . . .” he loses his train of thought as he hears the faint sound of footsteps and quickly turns his head.

“Ballots? You will need to count them manually this election. We may be able to assist with the acquisition of electronic readers in the future, but it is a substantial expense.”

Ignis nods but he is no longer listening to his companion. He is straining to hear a familiar sauntering gait, approaching from down the street, followed by the click of a dog’s nails.

“Apologies, could you excuse me a moment?” Ignis asks, standing up.

“Of course” the diplomat takes a sip of his coffee and smiles up at Ignis with gleaming teeth.

As he walks towards the sounds, the footsteps pick up pace, and then suddenly stop. Ignis stops too. He briefly considers calling out, but then thinks better of it and returns to his meeting. 

“Apologies again, I thought that I heard someone I used to know.”

—

Prompto crouches next to a metal trash bin, focusing his camera. He thinks this early morning light is perfect, as he takes several shots across the intersection. His subject is the crowded tent encampment on the corner.

Bounding across the street, he exclaims: “I think I got a good one—check it out!”

A tough-looking hunter stands up from her camp chair and Prompto hands her the camera. She gives a nod of approval. “Not bad, Sunshine.”

Prompto grins. “I think this story on houselessness in Insomnia is going to be really good. These pictures could really make a difference. So . . . thanks, you guys, for letting me photograph you.”

A man emerges from one of the tents, his voice is gravely behind a fluffy white beard. “Join us for breakfast, kid. You can take some close-ups.”

“One step ahead of you Abe. I brought pastries!” Prompto proudly pulls a shopping bag from his backpack. “Courtesy of The Meteor.”

Passing around the croissants and muffins, Prompto catches a glimpse of a black-clad figure on the other side of the intersection, just before they disappear behind a building.

He shakes his head and sniffs. _Stop this. It’s never him._

—

Noct stops to press his forehead against cool stone and wait for his pounding heartbeat to slow. Umbra pushes a wet nose into Noctis’s hand, and gets a nice scratch behind the ear.

It takes all of the man’s resolve to not turn back around and walk straight into the arms of his most important person in all of Eos. Noctis makes a decision. He devises a compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompto used the term “houseless” rather than “homeless” because it more accurately describes the condition of his friends and neighbors living on the street without adequate shelter. I first heard this term listening to an interview of poverty scholar and activist Tiny aka Lisa Gray-Garcia. My head-canon is that Prompto is quite radical.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompto is flipping through the magazine rack at his neighborhood coffee shop/sci-fi bookstore, The Double R. He usually finds some cool independent comic books and radical zines there. He also likes to see his own photographs on the front page of The Meteor.

He opens up a magenta poetry zine made of stapled printer paper—very DIY. A poem by someone calling themselves “Mod Dweeb” gives him an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia, especially the line: _‘Sunbeams shine through altissian blinds, bright stripes across freckled shoulders.’_

He dabs at the corner of his eye with a napkin and hopes nobody is looking.

—

Prompto scours the bookstores, record shops and coffee houses of Insomnia looking for more poetry from Mod Dweeb.

Finally, in a zine he bought at the counter of a very punk-rock laundromat, he finds what he’s looking for. The poem, titled ’10 years: a compendium of scars,’ makes his mouth go dry.

It starts like this: _‘Goblin, bite, left shoulder. Red Giant, burn, right calf. Yojimbo, sword slice, left thigh . . .’_ And then goes on and on like that, cataloging the various injuries that Prompto suffered during the Long Night, more or less in chronological order.

“How?!” He asks the pigeon pecking at a burger wrapper near his feet.

—

Prompto finds out about the reading from Alice, his very cool friend who also works at the paper (on the culture beat, of course). The room is small, dark, and crowded. People whisper about Mod Dweeb. 

“Their work is so haunting.” 

“Yeah, they have definitely seen some shit.” 

“Haven’t we all?” 

“Fair, but, that’s some serious shit.” 

“Did you read the one about the scars?”

Prompto backs himself into a corner, and tries not to hyperventilate.

Mod Dweeb finally emerges from a back room. They are short, slight, and wearing a black hoodie. Their face is obscured. Then the poet begins to speak. His voice is unmistakeable, as he describes different qualities of light.

Prompto leans wobbly against the bookshelves, hands covering damp cheeks, trying not to cry too loudly.

—

After the reading, Prompto ignores murmured protests as he slips through the door after the poet, and rushes down the stairs to a basement room.

There stands Noctis, with open arms. Prompto falls in and holds on tight. Noctis squeezes back, both of them shaking with tears and laughter.

Umbra barks excitedly at their feet.

“I never knew you could write like that Noct,” voice muffled as he speaks into Noctis’s shoulder.

“Weren’t you always sneaking peeks at my journal?”

“Dude!? No! Only, like, a couple times.”

Noctis pulls away to look at his best friend, squinting a little, a wry smile unfolding across his face.

Prompto attempts a smooth recovery. “Anyway, you’ve gotten a lot better Buddy! No offense.”

“Thanks Prompto. For everything.“ 

—

Ignis can feel the tension in the elevator. The awkward silence. Clearing his throat he says, “This is unusual, even for Prompto, but we shouldn’t assume the worst.”

Gladio looks up to watch the numbers light up as they pass each floor of the high-rise apartment building. “I just don’t understand why we can’t have this ‘talk’ at the curry place down the street. Last time I checked, Prompto can’t cook.”

“Maybe he ordered in?”

“I just hope he’s not up to anything weird.”

When they reach the door, Prompto pokes his head out, looking down the hallway past his friends. “Ok, come on in guys. Please don’t be mad.”

Gladio, agitated, opens his mouth to speak. He stops when Ignis places a gentle hand on his arm, and whispers “Let’s just wait and see.”

Ignis steps carefully over a pile of shoes as he enters the familiar messy apartment. He hears Gladio gasp and then nearly falls over at the sound of Noct’s voice. “Hi Iggy, Gladio.”

Noctis steps forward to embrace his friends.

Prompto joins the group hug, crowing “I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything before! Noct says we have to keep him a secret!”

Four men sit around the table eating take-out curry and reminiscing. They formulate strategies and make inside jokes almost forgotten. They stay up late playing Kings Knight 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can fill in the details of what happens in the basement of that bookstore. There's a printing press down there. And an old couch.
> 
> P.S. They definitely serve cherry pie at The Double R.


	4. Chapter 4

It is one year since the sun returned. Election Day. All the shops are closed because it’s a holiday.

Iris is grinning from ear to ear, watching the crowd at the Leville. People are eating complimentary kebabs while they wait in line to cast their ballots in the first ever democratic election in the history of Lucis.

She leans towards the polling booth, pen in hand, hovering over her ballot.

“Ready? Smile! 1 - 2 - 3!” A flurry of camera snaps as Prompto bobs left and right, looking for the perfect shot to commemorate this historic moment.

“Alright alright can I vote already!?” Mock exasperation gives way to laughter.

Iris looks down at the paper ballot and finds her name in list of candidates—Iris Amicitia, Hunter. She completes the arrow with a pen stroke, and looks up at her friend and her brother.

Gladio is beaming with pride as his little sister deposits her ballot in the box. Prompto gives a thumbs up but doesn’t stop taking pictures.

—

Ignis’s phone won’t stop ringing today. They ran out of sandwiches at the Hammerhead polling station. The toilet backed up at Cape Caem. The Leville was afraid that election-day crowds would exceed their maximum occupancy and violate the fire code. He has handled countless little emergencies and now the polls are finally closed.

His phone rings again, but this time he isn’t annoyed.

“You did it Ignis! Now you deserve a vacation.”

“Thank you, Noct. I think that’s an excellent idea.”

A call comes in on the other line. “I have to go, results are coming in now.”

—

After an amazing 85% turnout of eligible voters, Lucis elects it’s first parliament. A majority of members are women. The youngest, at only 25 years old, is the M.P. from Lestallum.

In its first session, Parliament appoints the MP from Galahd, survivor of war and revolution, as Prime Minister. 

—

“Everybody ready? Prompto, do you need to use the bathroom?” Noctis calls out.

Four friends are loading up a car with plastic bins filled with food and cookware, four camp chairs and two tents, a tackle box and fishing pole.

“Good idea Buddy! BRB!”

Gladio looks at their chauffeur, his little driving hat and gloves, and smirks. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe you should hide in the back and let Prompto drive.”

“You can’t be serious.” Noctis straightens his lapels, his expression perfectly deadpan. “Anyway, no one will recognize me in this amazing disguise.”

“People perceive what they expect, and largely ignore what the don’t.” Ignis takes his seat in the back of the car. “Everyone knows that the Prophecy is true, so they will conform their perception to that reality.”

Gladio gives a skeptical grunt, taking a seat next to Ignis and pulling out a book.

The front passenger door swings open and Prompto launches himself inside. “Road trip! Let’s go!” He turns on the stereo. It’s the #1 summer jam.

Four friends sing along as they drive away, through their resilient city, towards the Leiden desert and a much-deserved vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody to the limit.


End file.
